


The Four Kings of EMI/ Randy Scouse Gits/ Somebody Calls You

by sherlocked221



Category: The Beatles, The Monkees
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Phone Calls & Telephones, Swearing, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 14:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10248059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: The Beatles hear The Monkees new song Randy Scouse Git and realise it's about them.So, they pay them a phone call.Set after the release of Sgt Peppers but not meant to be historically accurate, its just a cute story.





	1. Phone Calls 1, 2 and 3

**Author's Note:**

> I was so tired when I wrote this so excuse mistakes and the gradual decline of writing ability.

There was a knock on the door and there, out on the sunny door step, stood a courier.

“Package for Mr Lennon.”

Ignoring the looks from the unenthusiastic young postman- he was probably wondering if this was really John Lennon, _the_ Beatles’ John Lennon- John took the thin, square package and read the scrawled address on the front. Not to see if it was right or to check his own address, he just wanted to study the familiar handwriting. It was Paul’s for sure.

He kicked the door shut in the courier’s face, before the poor boy had a chance to work out if this encounter was something he could brag about later or not, and pulled open the cardboard dressing around the package.

It was a record. It was obviously a record. Before he’d even pulled out the LP in it’s inner layer of protection, he knew that it was one. It was the exact shape and feel. He’d held, made and played so many that having one in his hands felt more natural than holding a cigarette between his middle and index fingers.

But why would Paul send him a LP?

A vague answer came in the form of a scrap of paper taped to the front of the album, yet he didn’t bother looking at that first. He was a classic discarder of instructions. He figured, as he did with everything else, that he might be able to work out his own answer just by running his eyes over the LP cover. Tugging the note off, he studied what lay underneath. Four, glossy, familiar faces standing almost in a circle on a white background with the word ‘Headquarters’ written in a blue, bubble font. He cocked his head to the side, sicking the cigarette, that had been smoking away all by its self, into the corner of his mouth.

Ok, why would Paul send him the latest Monkees’ album?

Not that he disliked the Monkees, not at all. It was just an odd thing to send. He could buy this from any record store should it take his fancy. He threw the album onto the sofa and sat beside it with the note in his hands. Before reading it, though, he took a drag from his cigarette and placed on a pair of glasses. Without them, he wouldn’t be able to read a thing.

_Dear John,_

_Trust me on this._

_It’s a pretty good album but,_

_check out the last song._

_Call me after._

_Paul_

Alrighty then. John usually would have questioned this. He was not the type to take orders, least of all from his friends, but he had nothing better to do and Paul did say ‘trust me.’ It was as good a reason as any. He heaved himself from the sofa and padded to his record player, shaking his head, muttering, “Fucking weirdo,” under his breath.

He dragged the jet-black record from its sleeve and the brown dust cover inside and placed it gentle onto the player. With a feather touch, he sought out the last song, dropping the needle right on the separating groove at the end of a song called ‘Early Morning Blues and Greens.’ As a few seconds of silence went by, John picked up the cover once more to check what this last song was called.

Alternate Title. Interesting.

The tune began with a drum riff, then a piano one which was obviously influenced by jazz, leading John to believe Micky contributed heavily to it. When he’d met the Monkees, he got a clear idea of what sound each of them liked. Mike liked country, obviously. Peter was a folk type. Davy liked musical theatre, a classic, cheesy type. And Micky liked jazz, scat, that sort of thing. After the short opening, the lyrics came through with the latter Monkee on lead vocals, singing:

_She’s a wonderful lady and she’s mine all mine_

_And there doesn’t seem a way that she won’t come and lose my mind_

Typical love song? Ok so it had a pretty different sound which was really groovy, but was it really worth making all that effort just to hear one love song?

That was his thoughts until the second bit of the verse kicked in. He listened to the lyrics closely, as a songwriter was conditioned to do and he noticed the strange direction they suddenly took. They were no longer singing about some pretty girl in a yellow dress…

_The four kings of EMI are sitting stately on the floor_

_There are birds out on the sidewalk and a valet at the door_

In hearing the name of The Beatles’ label along with these mysterious four kings, John was starting to understand why Paul took an interest in the song, but he still had too many questions. He listened to the rest of it, noting the description of a party, the girl they kept bringing up, then he pulled up the needle of the record player and darted to the phone.

“Lennon, me old pal.” Paul’s voice came through the old wires, fully aware of the reason for John’s call. His tone was knowing, he sounded as though he were smiling.

“Why did you want me to listen to that?” John chuckled, skipping over friendly greetings.

“Cute little song, isn’t it?”

“Interesting one, but…”

“Do you want to know what the title for it was in America?”

“Do I?”

“Well, it’s worth knowing. Sort of puts things into context.”

“Go on then.”

“Randy Scouse Git.”

A wide smile stretched John’s lips while his eyes narrowed. The bastards, he thought.

“They wrote a song about us?”

“Micky did, to be precise, after that bloody party we threw for them. I think he’s obsessed with us.”

“Perhaps we should pay him a bit of attention.”

“My thoughts exactly. You call Ritchie. Tell him to meet at the studio at… 4, maybe? I’ll get Harrison.”

A quick goodbye later and the phone went dead. John was full of child-like delight at the prospect of getting together with his friends on a whim to spend time with them, gladly lacking any sort of agenda or deadline. And they would be calling their other friends. The last time he’d had contact with their American counterparts was a message from them saying thank you for the party. It felt like years ago, but it was probably barely a few months. It would be fun to give them a little surprise, the two bands together shouting down the phone like some completely insane business call. It would be fun with friends like a throwback to his younger days, being the cheeky fab four he’d long forgotten.

He hung up the phone, then dialled the number for Ringo. He couldn’t wait to hear another of his friend’s voices. He felt as though he’d been away from them for too long. They were coming out with a new album soon, then back into the studio for another, but this was that moment in between when he didn’t feel like a Beatle any more, he didn’t really want to be. What he wanted was to go back to the simple days of playing in the Cavern with three friends. But he would take all of the shit he’d gotten over all the years all over again to spend time with said friends.

“Hello?” Ringo piped up, disturbing John’s thoughts.

“Ritchie, it’s John.”

“Alright mate. Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“I know,” John said, sincerely, “It’s nice to talk to you again.”

“And you. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ah Ritchie, always the scouse of distinction. Look, have you heard the new Monkees’ album.”

Ringo was laughing a little, “Vaguely in the background of record shops or something.”

“Ok, go and buy it on me, it’s called Headquarters, and listen to the last song. Just trust me on this. Then meet us at the studio tomorrow at 4.”

“Tomorrow? Why?”

“We’re going to make a call. Just trust me.”

John did not let another question in. He hung up with a short excuse that he had to leave before dialling Paul again to see if the mission was a go.

“Harrison will be there. The time should be alright, ‘cause you know, the time difference and all. We can wait if not. See you.”

All was agreed, all was a go. John was beyond excited, but that was almost killed when the phone went dead again and he realised that he would have to wait an entire night and day until he would see his friends. It would certainly be a sleepless night, a restless beginning of the day, he was not looking forward to that. He was looking forward to being the fab four again, to being four friends.

He wandered up the steps to his bedroom and disrobed as usual. He may have felt a bit shit about the anti-climax of waiting, but he was so excited, unusually excited about the next day to the point that he had this permanent smile on his face. He kept thinking about Paul, because Paul had thought of telling him first, Paul had forced the interaction. He flopped back onto his bed and thought about Paul, about seeing him tomorrow. He might be able to fall asleep with Paul on his mind.

Even after all these years, he still adored Paul.

He still loved Paul.


	2. “Ok, are we set to give ‘em a call?”

Did Paul know that the Headquarters thing would bring the Beatles together for a few giggles at Abbey road? No, he didn’t, but he had sort of hoped so. Mostly, he just wanted to talk to John on friendly terms. Not that they weren’t close, but it just wasn’t how it used to be, especially now that John was with Yoko.

He fluttered his big brown eyes open the morning of meeting the band and felt an odd rush of eagerness run through him to see John, Ringo, George. And they’d call their friends over in America. It would be a mental mixture of American, Scouse and Mancunian to decipher.

Paul loved the Monkees. When they’d first met, there was this awkwardness of manufactured meets master, amateur meets icon, celebrity meets royalty. The Beatles didn’t feel that way, they just saw it as meeting other musicians. The Monkees, however, felt this awkwardness of not being at their level. After a few joints passed around, though, all that fear melted away. Regardless of musical talent or beginnings, these eight young men and many others considered each other as friends.

 Paul got up quite hastily and dressed in whatever poked out of the wardrobe first. He so didn’t want to wait until 4 in the afternoon.

In fact, he wasn’t going to.

At… way too early for it to be justified, he went about his daily routine, then rushed out the door. He figured he’d grab some lunch on the way. He might bring lunch for the other guys, bring a whole buffet, just because it might kill some time before he makes his way to the studio. He grinned as he sat in his car, looking out the window, not really seeing any of London, but seeing a fantasy playing in his head, just of how the whole situation will play out. Will he be the first there? Will the Monkees not pick up? Will it be awkward between him and John or will they fall into old habits?

Instead of scared, he was invigorated.

 

“John.”

“Alright, Paulie?”

John was there first, in studio 2, sitting at his usual place with an acoustic guitar between his legs. It was barely past lunchtime.

“You’re early.” Paul pointed out, casually, ignoring the fact that he was four hours keen too.

“Yeah. Thought I might hang out here. I had nothing else to do at home.” John nonchalantly replied, hiding the plain smile still on his face from the night before.

“Me neither.”

The two finally met eyes and grinned. There was something unspoken between them, the confession in their grins. They both admitted, almost telepathically, that they couldn’t wait to see each other. They didn’t have to say anything. All the uncomfort faded out the room and Paul placed two plasic bags on the table closest to him.

“I brought lunch.”

“Thanks. I’ve got this new song.”

“So do I.”

And they fell into old habits. Presenting lyrics, tunes, whatever they’d stored in their heads for the past few weeks like they always did in recording sessions. Then they talked about the Monkees and their new songs. Headquarters was a big album for the Monkees because it was the first they’d put together themselves, they’d played everything themselves. It was heartbreaking, even the Beatles felt guilty, that Sgt Peppers outranked them in the charts when it came out mere weeks after Headquarters was released, jumping to number one.

John then insisted that they put on Headquarters, and the two chatted about the different tracks, stopping the music every so often t discuss elements they liked. And there were times that they’d fall into giggles, making up jokes or stories to amuse themselves. A perticular track they couldn’t help but be attracted to was Zilch. The jokes and genuine interest they came out with from that took up a significant amount of their time as they waited for their other two friends to turn up.

And before they were even aware of the time, it had moved on, bringing Ringo to the door.

“Was that song about us?” He asked, the moment he stepped into the studio, calling for another listen to Randy Scouse Git.

Then George came in, in a fit of giggles upon hearing the song.

“Ok, are we set to give ‘em a call?”


	3. Phone call 4

On set of their second series, The Monkees were already having a manic day. They’d arrived early, had several rucks with the costume designer who insisted they change out of their clothes and into double buttons, Mike had gone off in a tantrum and the amount of actual filming being acomplished was minimal. All in all, it seemed like it would be a thoroghly unproductive day.

When Mike finally came out of his dressing room, wearing a glare so evil that every extra averted their eyes in order to keep on the good side of him, the four actors regrouped and ran over the script. While the cameras were getting ready, the set being perfected, all of that film nonsense, the Monkees stood up on the small raised stage in the fake pad where their instrements were set up so that they could practice. The girl that I knew Somewhere played amongst the chorus of people talking and shuffling about.

Then, all of a sudden, someone came running onto the set saying, “Call for the Monkees.”

Everything was halted. Bert Schnider hurried off on behalf of his actors, muttering to himself that ‘the fucking show won’t be fucking finished if these boys don’t knuckle down…’

The Monkees, however, took very little interest. Micky pulled Davy to the side, leaving their instements to go over the script. Mike and Peter started to play opposite each other, facing each other with their expressions being all they needed to converse. A quiet version of I’m A Believer filled the emptiness left by the lack of a full band, with Mike glancing up every so often to see if there was any indication that they might get any work done today. It was looking less than hopeful

“Boys!” Bert called from a small room near their dressing rooms. The four Monkees looked up with alerted expressions, “It’s for you.”

“All of us?” Davy yelled back, his baby-faced brow knotted into small lines.

“Yes.”

“Who is it?”

There was a pause, dramatic enough to warrant an ad break before the cliffhanger was resolved.

“Billy Shears.”

The whole film set hear the name and very extra, every coffee runner and camera operator turned their heads to one another. Where had they heard that name? Why would someone use that name? Why would the Beatles be calling the Monkees? Mike’s eyes turned wide as his face lit up with a smile.

“Fucking Lennon.” He mermered, storming up to Bert and snatching the phone from his hands. “Alright, Lennon. You realise we’re trying to work here!” He said, trying not to sound terrified. He’d made sure that everyone heard exactly who he was talking to, just so he could boast later, just so everybody knew that the Monkees were friends with the Beatles. He regarded his three bandmate who were gazing at him in awe, their confused beams asking ‘is it really them?’ There was a quiet laugh from several voices cracking down the phone line before anyone started talking.

“Mr Nesmith, how are you, ya Monkee!?”

“I’m good. Glad you bothered to call such loly peasents as ourselves.”

“Well, we got a bone to pick with you lot. Are the others there?”

Mike beckoned his friend obver with glee and held the phone in the middle so they could all hear.

“Who is it?” Davy asked, directed at Mike, bit it was the voice on the phone to replied.

“Ah, ze fellow Englander. Guten Morgen.” John feigned his German accent from A Hard Day’s night, for no perticular reason.

“John Lennon?” Micky gasped, “Just you?” Then one by one, the three others piped up, introducing themselves as they once had on the radio;

“Hello, I’m Paul McCartney, and I play bass.”

“Hello, I’m George and I play lead guitar.”

“Hello, I’m Ringo and I play drums.”

“Yeah, and we’ve got a bone to pick with you.” John capped it off.

“What did we do?” Davy inquired.

“Which of you American bastards wrote Randy Scouse Git?”

A short burst of laughter from the Monkees’ side was followed by Micky guiltily owning up. “Me. You liked it?”

“Interesting sound and all.”

“yeah, it was obviously influenced by Jazz, which made it sound significatly different than your other stuff.”

“And the scat mixed with pop, an interesting mixture.”

“But can we ask where you got your inspiration from for the lyrics?”

Another giggle. The Monkees felt like fangirls finally getting a taste of the Beatles’ attention.

“It was sort of a thank you for the party. It was amazing. We finally got to meet our idols!” Peter explained, being encouraged by Micky nodding his head, smiling proudly.

“C’mon fellas!” Ringo said, “We’re on the same boat here. We don’t need to be idols, we’d rather be friends.”

“But if you want to call us Kings of EMI, please carry on.” George laughed.  Micky’s laugh was the loudest down the phone.

“Hey, you really do rule over EMI.”

“Well, you are bigger than Jesus, are you not?”

The low blow made John feign hurt and anger.

“Alright. There’s four of us and four of you. Next time we see you, we’re gonna have a proper barmy.”

“I call dibs on Paul.” Micky said loudly.

“Why me?” Paul asked, sounding a little afraid at Micky’s eagerness.

“You’re such a pretty boy, I think I’d win easy.”

“I’ll take Ringo!” Davy said, “He’s the only one my size. I’m not going to pick on anyone bigger than me.”

“I’m up for that.”

“Then I’ll take Mike.” George sinisterly mermered. “Unfinished business between guitarists,”

“Alright then, Peter, you up for a fight?” John asked.

“Sure!”

“So does that mean you’re inviting us over?” Micky said, hopefully. The four Beatles exchanged excited glances.

“Sure, let us know when you can.” Paul replied. Then there was a chorus of nervous, awkward giggles. The call seemed to be ending, but no one wanted it to.

“So, we’ve got to get filming. No doubt you lit have another album to churn out and beat us on the chats again.”

“You know it.”

“Call again.”

“We promise, bye.”

A few gentle goodbyes and, while neither person who was holding the phone perticular wanted to put it down, the Monkees were gone first.


End file.
